patrollerhttp://www.skinet.com/skiing/taxonomy/term/4128/%252Ffeed
enIs Boundary-Free Skiing Freedom or Risk?http://www.skinet.com/skiing/fondue-party/ski-culture/2008/12/is-boundary-free-skiing-freedom-or-risk?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<!--paging_filter--><!--paging_filter--><!--paging_filter--><!--paging_filter--><p><strong>POINT: Vive la France</strong><br /> <em>By Tim Neville</em><br /> I was 12 years old the first time I ducked a boundary line. I’d been scratching Pennsylvania ice when I spotted what looked like powder beyond the rope—a thing I’d never actually touched before. I poached it, got busted, and was lectured. “You could get hurt,” the patroller said. </p>
<p> I’ve never been injured skiing—knock on wood—and it isn’t because I stay inbounds. Before patrollers hunt me down with wire clippers, I’ll be the first to say that ropes are there for a reason. And maybe I’ve just been lucky. But fast-forward a couple decades and I’ve come to realize the biggest beef I have with American ski areas isn’t with patrollers and ropes but with Americans. </p>
<p> I can say things like that because I now live in Europe, where ski-related rescues are a quarter as likely as in America. Here—as well as in places like Canada, Chile, and Argentina—you learn fast that the only way to miss the dog shit is to watch your step. In America you can find someone else to blame. Just ask David Graven. In 1992, he fell into a ravine off the side of a double black at Vail. He sued the resort and won. The courts ruled unmarked ravines aren’t an inherent risk, so falling in them really isn’t your fault. Out came the ropes. </p>
<p> In recent years, however, American resorts have begun to loosen the gates and open more backcountry terrain. But they still have a long way to go until they adopt the French idea of <em>libre circulation</em>, which gives you free access anywhere. In Europe, as soon as a foot of snow covers mountain turf, that land becomes public property, regardless of whose home sits atop it. Marking areas off-limits is the exception, not the rule. Sure, obstacles might not be marked and you may end up far from where you need to be. But that’s freedom. </p>
<p> Europeans don’t expect ski areas to be concierges or babysitters. If you need a rescue, even inbounds, you pay: 48 euros for on-slope help and up to 16,000 euros for a helicopter with a multiday search. A Carte Neige insurance policy costs around $50 and covers transportation costs should you need a rescue, but even so, having to pay up front makes people think twice about what they ski—or whether they should be skiing at all. A Breckenridge, Colorado, ski patroller told me he once got called out to patch a toenail. </p>
<p> The European system certainly has its flaws, but in general, when skiers here want to explore, they hire a guide and head out prepared. When they ski, they’re not expecting a padded room. They know that mountains have ravines. </p>
<p> <em>After spending two years in Europe in the 1990s, writer Tim Neville moved back in August for a third, indefinite stint, this time in Switzerland.</em></p>
<p> <strong>COUNTERPOINT: Arrêtez les Idiots</strong><br /> <em>By Russ Rizzo</em><br /> My first taste of Europe’s laissez-faire approach to ski boundaries landed me in a Swiss family’s backyard. I was at Grindelwald resort six years ago. At one moment, I was enjoying vertical drops twice as long as those I was used to stateside. If there was a boundary rope, I didn’t see it. The next thing I knew, I was hoofing it back to the ski area I’d left a quarter mile back. </p>
<p> I’m the first to admit my detour was a shining example of an American taking his habits to a foreign place. From an early age, it’s been ingrained in me that orange ropes act as guardrails on a ski slope, just as slow in chiding black letters means I’m getting close to the lodge. In Europe, if you see a warning sign or a rope it probably means you’re on your way to certain death off a cliff. </p>
<p> The reality is, most skiers, especially those in the U.S., don’t show up with knowledge about avalanches or backcountry safety. A lot of skiers are Texans wearing jester hats and belt buckles—and they need guardrails and warning signs. </p>
<p> In the U.S., bad things can happen when people ignore boundary lines. Last winter, 24-year-old Oscar Gonzales Jr. ducked a rope at California’s Mountain High and got so lost he spent the night in an old airplane fuselage before getting airlifted to safety. He was lucky—three others that weekend died in separate avalanches close to where he was. </p>
<p> All told, eight skiers in the U.S. were killed in avalanches just off resort property last winter, in one of the deadliest avalanche seasons in American history. In most cases, those skiers knew the dangers. They carried avalanche gear and left resort property through gates clearly marked with warnings. I can’t imagine what would happen if there were no boundary ropes or warning signs. </p>
<p> In the U.S., stick to the rules, and you can rest easy knowing you’re not getting in over your head. When I ski a resort, I leave the beacon and map at home and trust that ski patrollers have thought of the precautions so I don’t have to. I’m free to enjoy my day without keeping a vigilant eye out for rogue cable cars. By enforcing their boundaries, American resorts are protecting their ability to provide peace of mind. Now that’s real freedom: being able to shut off your brain and just ski without worry. Besides, there’s enough to pack for the ski trip without adding shovels and probes to the mix. </p>
<p> Europeans may look down on our off-limits approach to skiing. But while they’re checking for cliffs every turn, I’ll be comforted knowing that I’ll return to the lodge in one piece without any life-threatening detours. </p>
<p> <em>When he’s not risking it all in the backcountry, freelance writer Russ Rizzo enjoys inbounds skiing in Colorado and Utah.</em></p>
<p> - SKIING MAGAZINE, JANUARY 2009</p>
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http://www.skinet.com/skiing/fondue-party/ski-culture/2008/12/is-boundary-free-skiing-freedom-or-risk#commentsSki CultureFondue Partyamerican resortspatrollerravineropesski areaskiing62573http://www.skinet.com/skiing/files/_pages_thumbs/2008-12/skg0109ft_ft.jpg69296http://www.skinet.com/skiing/files/_pages_thumbs/2008-12/skg0109ft_ft.jpg69296A debate between a Europhile and a worrier.<!--paging_filter--><!--paging_filter--><!--paging_filter--><!--paging_filter--><p><strong>POINT: Vive la France</strong><br /> <em>By Tim Neville</em><br /> I was 12 years old the first time I ducked a boundary line. I’d been scratching Pennsylvania ice when I spotted what looked like powder beyond the rope—a thing I’d never actually touched before. I poached it, got busted, and was lectured. “You could get hurt,” the patroller said. </p>
<p> I’ve never been injured skiing—knock on wood—and it isn’t because I stay inbounds. Before patrollers hunt me down with wire clippers, I’ll be the first to say that ropes are there for a reason. And maybe I’ve just been lucky. But fast-forward a couple decades and I’ve come to realize the biggest beef I have with American ski areas isn’t with patrollers and ropes but with Americans. </p>
<p> I can say things like that because I now live in Europe, where ski-related rescues are a quarter as likely as in America. Here—as well as in places like Canada, Chile, and Argentina—you learn fast that the only way to miss the dog shit is to watch your step. In America you can find someone else to blame. Just ask David Graven. In 1992, he fell into a ravine off the side of a double black at Vail. He sued the resort and won. The courts ruled unmarked ravines aren’t an inherent risk, so falling in them really isn’t your fault. Out came the ropes. </p>
<p> In recent years, however, American resorts have begun to loosen the gates and open more backcountry terrain. But they still have a long way to go until they adopt the French idea of <em>libre circulation</em>, which gives you free access anywhere. In Europe, as soon as a foot of snow covers mountain turf, that land becomes public property, regardless of whose home sits atop it. Marking areas off-limits is the exception, not the rule. Sure, obstacles might not be marked and you may end up far from where you need to be. But that’s freedom. </p>
<p> Europeans don’t expect ski areas to be concierges or babysitters. If you need a rescue, even inbounds, you pay: 48 euros for on-slope help and up to 16,000 euros for a helicopter with a multiday search. A Carte Neige insurance policy costs around $50 and covers transportation costs should you need a rescue, but even so, having to pay up front makes people think twice about what they ski—or whether they should be skiing at all. A Breckenridge, Colorado, ski patroller told me he once got called out to patch a toenail. </p>
<p> The European system certainly has its flaws, but in general, when skiers here want to explore, they hire a guide and head out prepared. When they ski, they’re not expecting a padded room. They know that mountains have ravines. </p>
<p> <em>After spending two years in Europe in the 1990s, writer Tim Neville moved back in August for a third, indefinite stint, this time in Switzerland.</em></p>
<p> <strong>COUNTERPOINT: Arrêtez les Idiots</strong><br /> <em>By Russ Rizzo</em><br /> My first taste of Europe’s laissez-faire approach to ski boundaries landed me in a Swiss family’s backyard. I was at Grindelwald resort six years ago. At one moment, I was enjoying vertical drops twice as long as those I was used to stateside. If there was a boundary rope, I didn’t see it. The next thing I knew, I was hoofing it back to the ski area I’d left a quarter mile back. </p>
<p> I’m the first to admit my detour was a shining example of an American taking his habits to a foreign place. From an early age, it’s been ingrained in me that orange ropes act as guardrails on a ski slope, just as slow in chiding black letters means I’m getting close to the lodge. In Europe, if you see a warning sign or a rope it probably means you’re on your way to certain death off a cliff. </p>
<p> The reality is, most skiers, especially those in the U.S., don’t show up with knowledge about avalanches or backcountry safety. A lot of skiers are Texans wearing jester hats and belt buckles—and they need guardrails and warning signs. </p>
<p> In the U.S., bad things can happen when people ignore boundary lines. Last winter, 24-year-old Oscar Gonzales Jr. ducked a rope at California’s Mountain High and got so lost he spent the night in an old airplane fuselage before getting airlifted to safety. He was lucky—three others that weekend died in separate avalanches close to where he was. </p>
<p> All told, eight skiers in the U.S. were killed in avalanches just off resort property last winter, in one of the deadliest avalanche seasons in American history. In most cases, those skiers knew the dangers. They carried avalanche gear and left resort property through gates clearly marked with warnings. I can’t imagine what would happen if there were no boundary ropes or warning signs. </p>
<p> In the U.S., stick to the rules, and you can rest easy knowing you’re not getting in over your head. When I ski a resort, I leave the beacon and map at home and trust that ski patrollers have thought of the precautions so I don’t have to. I’m free to enjoy my day without keeping a vigilant eye out for rogue cable cars. By enforcing their boundaries, American resorts are protecting their ability to provide peace of mind. Now that’s real freedom: being able to shut off your brain and just ski without worry. Besides, there’s enough to pack for the ski trip without adding shovels and probes to the mix. </p>
<p> Europeans may look down on our off-limits approach to skiing. But while they’re checking for cliffs every turn, I’ll be comforted knowing that I’ll return to the lodge in one piece without any life-threatening detours. </p>
<p> <em>When he’s not risking it all in the backcountry, freelance writer Russ Rizzo enjoys inbounds skiing in Colorado and Utah.</em></p>
<p> - SKIING MAGAZINE, JANUARY 2009</p>
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<div class="photo_credit">Photo by: <span>Skiing Magazine Editor</span></div>
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articleFri, 19 Dec 2008 22:30:13 +0000SkiNet Editor62573 at http://www.skinet.com/skiingLivestock Stampedes on the Hillhttp://www.skinet.com/skiing/time-patrol/2008/11/dropping-in-livestock-stampedes-on-the-hill?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<p>It was probably the most frenzied scene I’ve witnessed in Telluride, and I’ve lived here almost 11 years. The chaos owed to several things. For one, it was 10 a.m. on a Saturday in January and no one was at work. Two, the skies had dumped two feet in the last 24 hours, and snow still pelted down. Three, and this had a lot to do with number two, patrol had roped off Upper Coonskin where it connects to Telluride Trail, blocking access to Chair 9 so patrollers could throw bombs. <br /><br /> Not one of the 60 or so skiers milling anxiously behind the rope could remember the last time patrol needed an extra hour beyond the 9 a.m. opening whistle to prepare the runs spilling down from Chair 9’s 11,890-foot apex. The higher, more slide-prone runs off Gold Hill? Sure. But not Chair 9. Over there, skier compaction usually handled the avalanche danger. <br /><br /> And the ropes were even more rare. They imbued skiers with a new, distinct feeling: We were corralled livestock. And someone was gonna get slaughtered. <br /><br /> I was sure the victim wouldn’t be me. While many skiers congregated near the trail sign the rope was tied to, several others and I sidestepped upward to skier’s right. Telluride Trail bends sharply right after 30 yards of Upper Coonskin, and this put us, I thought, in pole position. <br /><br /> People were yelling and hooting for the patroller to drop the rope. Others stomped their skis with nervous energy. In the elbowing, shoulder-to-shoulder lineup I saw defense-minded folks plant their poles right in front of their best friends’ crotches. No one conceded an inch. <br /><br /> Even when the goods aren’t so good, a rope barricade creates hysteria. Take Blue Mountain, Ontario, for instance. Blue Mountain is flat. Still, before a recent rope drop there, hordes of skiers waited. When the rope fell, they stampeded for what was under guard: fresh corduroy. People joined the herd simply because they thought they should. Then they chuckled at themselves the whole way down. <br /><br /> Above Upper Coonskin, no one laughed. We had to deal with the interminable delay, not to mention the snow, still dumping. I began adjusting my hood to stop the blizzard from freezing my neck. And that—<em>gahhhh!</em>—is when the patroller dropped the rope. <br /><br /> “Sweet Jesus!” I yelled, jumping in. I couldn’t see a thing. The hood covered my eyes. Beelining straight over invisible moguls, I pawed at my face. That launched my goggles off and sent them skittering onto the cat track. I was mortified. Suddenly, I was the weak cow to be culled from the herd. <br /><br /> In truth, there was so much carnage, so many collisions, on Upper Coonskin that retrieving my goggles set me back only a little. I boarded Chair 9 only four chairs behind my buddies. Still, I caught crap for my hood-and-goggle fiasco for the next three months. <br /><br /> Two days after the Chair 9 rope drop, I happened upon another one, this time accessing the stashes off Telluride’s summit, Gold Hill. No hood futzing for me anymore. I muscled my way up front, determined to use my football and rugby heritage to stay in the lead. <br /><br /> In addition to scores of locals, the Gold Hill rope drop frenzy contained a fair number of tourists. I saw a friend named Lou there. Lou had lived in Telluride for several seasons in the ’90s but spent many recent winters in Brooklyn. He was screwed. <br /><br /> When the rope fell, 20 of us charged in an elbow-throwing line straight down. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lou bury a tip, cartwheel through the powder, and get trampled by a local. I didn’t stop to help. Rope drops, like 60-degree steeps, are no-fall zones. <br /><br /> My K2 Coombas were nicely waxed, and my solid push out the gate netted me the second chair on Chair 14. I’m not sure, but I don’t think I ran over anyone. At one point, my knee was bounced violently upward by something firm under the snow. I believe it was a mogul, but perhaps it was a skull.</p>
http://www.skinet.com/skiing/time-patrol/2008/11/dropping-in-livestock-stampedes-on-the-hill#commentsSki CultureSkiing Cultureavalanchecompactiondropping ingold hillpatrollerskierskierstelluride coloradoskiing60702http://www.skinet.com/skiing/files/_pages_thumbs/2008-11/skg1208diat.jpg69218http://www.skinet.com/skiing/Rope drops bring out the competitive bastards in all of us. <p>It was probably the most frenzied scene I’ve witnessed in Telluride, and I’ve lived here almost 11 years. The chaos owed to several things. For one, it was 10 a.m. on a Saturday in January and no one was at work. Two, the skies had dumped two feet in the last 24 hours, and snow still pelted down. Three, and this had a lot to do with number two, patrol had roped off Upper Coonskin where it connects to Telluride Trail, blocking access to Chair 9 so patrollers could throw bombs. <br /><br /> Not one of the 60 or so skiers milling anxiously behind the rope could remember the last time patrol needed an extra hour beyond the 9 a.m. opening whistle to prepare the runs spilling down from Chair 9’s 11,890-foot apex. The higher, more slide-prone runs off Gold Hill? Sure. But not Chair 9. Over there, skier compaction usually handled the avalanche danger. <br /><br /> And the ropes were even more rare. They imbued skiers with a new, distinct feeling: We were corralled livestock. And someone was gonna get slaughtered. <br /><br /> I was sure the victim wouldn’t be me. While many skiers congregated near the trail sign the rope was tied to, several others and I sidestepped upward to skier’s right. Telluride Trail bends sharply right after 30 yards of Upper Coonskin, and this put us, I thought, in pole position. <br /><br /> People were yelling and hooting for the patroller to drop the rope. Others stomped their skis with nervous energy. In the elbowing, shoulder-to-shoulder lineup I saw defense-minded folks plant their poles right in front of their best friends’ crotches. No one conceded an inch. <br /><br /> Even when the goods aren’t so good, a rope barricade creates hysteria. Take Blue Mountain, Ontario, for instance. Blue Mountain is flat. Still, before a recent rope drop there, hordes of skiers waited. When the rope fell, they stampeded for what was under guard: fresh corduroy. People joined the herd simply because they thought they should. Then they chuckled at themselves the whole way down. <br /><br /> Above Upper Coonskin, no one laughed. We had to deal with the interminable delay, not to mention the snow, still dumping. I began adjusting my hood to stop the blizzard from freezing my neck. And that—<em>gahhhh!</em>—is when the patroller dropped the rope. <br /><br /> “Sweet Jesus!” I yelled, jumping in. I couldn’t see a thing. The hood covered my eyes. Beelining straight over invisible moguls, I pawed at my face. That launched my goggles off and sent them skittering onto the cat track. I was mortified. Suddenly, I was the weak cow to be culled from the herd. <br /><br /> In truth, there was so much carnage, so many collisions, on Upper Coonskin that retrieving my goggles set me back only a little. I boarded Chair 9 only four chairs behind my buddies. Still, I caught crap for my hood-and-goggle fiasco for the next three months. <br /><br /> Two days after the Chair 9 rope drop, I happened upon another one, this time accessing the stashes off Telluride’s summit, Gold Hill. No hood futzing for me anymore. I muscled my way up front, determined to use my football and rugby heritage to stay in the lead. <br /><br /> In addition to scores of locals, the Gold Hill rope drop frenzy contained a fair number of tourists. I saw a friend named Lou there. Lou had lived in Telluride for several seasons in the ’90s but spent many recent winters in Brooklyn. He was screwed. <br /><br /> When the rope fell, 20 of us charged in an elbow-throwing line straight down. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lou bury a tip, cartwheel through the powder, and get trampled by a local. I didn’t stop to help. Rope drops, like 60-degree steeps, are no-fall zones. <br /><br /> My K2 Coombas were nicely waxed, and my solid push out the gate netted me the second chair on Chair 14. I’m not sure, but I don’t think I ran over anyone. At one point, my knee was bounced violently upward by something firm under the snow. I believe it was a mogul, but perhaps it was a skull.</p>
articleMon, 24 Nov 2008 21:37:36 +0000SkiNet Editor60702 at http://www.skinet.com/skiing'Really Dude - Where's My Car?'http://www.skinet.com/skiing/backcountry/destinations/2005/03/really-dude-wheres-my-car?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<p>The power of collective prayer went over the top this winter as the Tahoe area received its biggest snows since 1916. The blizzard buried Kirkwood in 22 feet in 14 days, changing lives. Resort exec Suzy Scully had to enter her home through the second-floor window, and a skier who left his car in a No Parking zone was forced to search in vain with an avalanche probe. Resort employees can be forgiven for saying "uncle." They had to dig out Chair 3 from nine feet of snow and neutralize a 40-foot-high drift in Sunrise Bowl. As for the Kirkwood dude, he finally found his car when a patroller lent him a metal detector. "That guy," said one Kirkwood worker, "had one heck of a shoveling job to do."<BR /><BR />MARCH/APRIL 2005</p><P></p><P></p>
http://www.skinet.com/skiing/backcountry/destinations/2005/03/really-dude-wheres-my-car#commentsDestinationsapril 2005avalancheblizzardheckkirkwoodpatrollerskierBlizzardskiing8490http://www.skinet.com/skiing/http://www.skinet.com/skiing/Fall Line<p>The power of collective prayer went over the top this winter as the Tahoe area received its biggest snows since 1916. The blizzard buried Kirkwood in 22 feet in 14 days, changing lives. Resort exec Suzy Scully had to enter her home through the second-floor window, and a skier who left his car in a No Parking zone was forced to search in vain with an avalanche probe. Resort employees can be forgiven for saying "uncle." They had to dig out Chair 3 from nine feet of snow and neutralize a 40-foot-high drift in Sunrise Bowl. As for the Kirkwood dude, he finally found his car when a patroller lent him a metal detector. "That guy," said one Kirkwood worker, "had one heck of a shoveling job to do."<BR /><BR />MARCH/APRIL 2005</p><P></p><P></p>
articleThu, 17 Mar 2005 09:05:00 +0000SkiNet Editor8490 at http://www.skinet.com/skiingHow to Ski Any Mountain Like a Local: Quiz the Ski Patrolhttp://www.skinet.com/skiing/ski-patrol/2005/03/how-to-ski-any-mountain-like-a-local-quiz-the-ski-patrol?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<p>"I usually hang around the base of the lift until I can find my way onto a chair with a patroller," Brown says. "Patrollers aren't inclined to share secrets, but they like to talk about skiing. I find they're better sources than instructors-instructors know their way around the mountain superbly, but they look at the mountain in a different way. Patrollers are in touch with the people who find the deep powder." Moreover, they decide which runs to open and when, and they always sample them first.</p><P></p><P></p>
http://www.skinet.com/skiing/ski-patrol/2005/03/how-to-ski-any-mountain-like-a-local-quiz-the-ski-patrol#commentspatrollerski patrolskiingskiing8543http://www.skinet.com/skiing/http://www.skinet.com/skiing/Fall Line<p>"I usually hang around the base of the lift until I can find my way onto a chair with a patroller," Brown says. "Patrollers aren't inclined to share secrets, but they like to talk about skiing. I find they're better sources than instructors-instructors know their way around the mountain superbly, but they look at the mountain in a different way. Patrollers are in touch with the people who find the deep powder." Moreover, they decide which runs to open and when, and they always sample them first.</p><P></p><P></p>
articleThu, 17 Mar 2005 09:05:00 +0000SkiNet Editor8543 at http://www.skinet.com/skiingBombs Away?http://www.skinet.com/skiing/big-sky-resort-montana/2004/12/bombs-away?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<p>Few things say freedom like a two-pound hand charge shattering the silence of a waist-deep powder morning. With resorts expanding their boundaries and opening ever-steeper terrain, avalanche control is as integral to the modern epic ski day as 30 inches of four-percent fluff. So why are avalanche controllers worried that their programs are in danger of being dismantled? Two words: Homeland Security. <br /><br />For years, U.S. avalanche programs hummed along, using Howitzers, recoilless rifles, and Civil War—era cap-and-fuse hand-charge technology, with little government supervision. But a decade-long series of events has changed the way the feds, insurance companies, and bomb makers look at the process of blasting ski runs. It started with the 1995 Oklahoma City bombings. A year later, a patroller at Big Sky Resort, Montana, was killed when a hand charge detonated in her lap. (Her training had consisted of a one-day explosives course.) Then, in '98, a deranged former patroller from Homewood Resort, California, bombed a Tahoe City street corner with munitions he'd allegedly stolen from the ski area. Finally, along came September 11 and the Department of Homeland Security. So it's no surprise that ski resorts have come under examination that some fear could lead to an overhaul of avalanche control. <br /><br />"Some manufacturers are getting less comfortable selling to ski-area operations, says Crested Butte patrol director Woody Sherwood. "They think we're a bunch of Marlboro-smoking cowboys throwing bombs. In fact, after the Big Sky incident, Ensign-Bickford quit supplying munitions to ski areas. For those still involved, what matters is injury prevention—and keeping deadly weapons away from any nut-job who wants to make a statement. Sounds easy, until you consider a federally conducted audit, released in early '03, that revealed the U.S. Forest Service, which oversees ski-area avy control on public lands, didn't know where several of its 319 explosives bunkers were located. (The USFS responded by bolstering its bomb-tracking system.)<br /><br />To start tightening control, Congress passed a homeland security provision in 2003 that forbids nonresident aliens from handling explosives and requires stricter background checks. But the measure didn't stop a raid on the bomb cache at Winter Park Resort, Colorado, last March, where someone stole several hand charges (one charge is roughly equal to two sticks of dynamite). To experts, the incident proved that security will remain an issue. Says Ed Ryberg, USFS ski area program coordinator: "Anyone can find out where that stuff is.
</p><p>But don't go pawning your fat skis and resigning yourself to the groomers; avalanche control is unlikely to go away any time soon. "It's not like we have an ax over our heads, says Doug Abromeit, director of the forest service's National Avalanche Center. "But all this scrutiny is going to make everyone stay on his game even more. Nonetheless, Crested Butte's Sherwood, and avy experts across the U.S., are nervous. "It's a whole new world since 9/11, he says. "I don't know what the net result will be. But if we have another problem, we could be in trouble. </p>
<div class="field field-type-nodereference field-field-related-content">
<div class="field-items">
<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/grenoble-station/2004/09/skiing-into-terror">Skiing Into Terror</a> </div>
<div class="field-item even">
<a href="/skiing/gear/skis/2004/09/win-the-avalanche-game">Win the Avalanche Game</a> </div>
<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/avalanche-season/2004/02/can-you-trust-your-guide">Can You Trust Your Guide?</a> </div>
<div class="field-item even">
<a href="/skiing/2001/02/cliffhanger">Cliffhanger</a> </div>
</div>
</div>
http://www.skinet.com/skiing/big-sky-resort-montana/2004/12/bombs-away#commentsavalanchebig sky resortcrested buttepatrol directorpatrollerski areatahoe cityskiing12491http://www.skinet.com/skiing/files/skinetimages/skiing/content/images/2004/nov04/coldfront1104/SKG1104cfat.jpg52465Cold Front 1104
Homeland security, Snowbird-style.
http://www.skinet.com/skiing/Cold Front<p>Few things say freedom like a two-pound hand charge shattering the silence of a waist-deep powder morning. With resorts expanding their boundaries and opening ever-steeper terrain, avalanche control is as integral to the modern epic ski day as 30 inches of four-percent fluff. So why are avalanche controllers worried that their programs are in danger of being dismantled? Two words: Homeland Security. <br /><br />For years, U.S. avalanche programs hummed along, using Howitzers, recoilless rifles, and Civil War—era cap-and-fuse hand-charge technology, with little government supervision. But a decade-long series of events has changed the way the feds, insurance companies, and bomb makers look at the process of blasting ski runs. It started with the 1995 Oklahoma City bombings. A year later, a patroller at Big Sky Resort, Montana, was killed when a hand charge detonated in her lap. (Her training had consisted of a one-day explosives course.) Then, in '98, a deranged former patroller from Homewood Resort, California, bombed a Tahoe City street corner with munitions he'd allegedly stolen from the ski area. Finally, along came September 11 and the Department of Homeland Security. So it's no surprise that ski resorts have come under examination that some fear could lead to an overhaul of avalanche control. <br /><br />"Some manufacturers are getting less comfortable selling to ski-area operations, says Crested Butte patrol director Woody Sherwood. "They think we're a bunch of Marlboro-smoking cowboys throwing bombs. In fact, after the Big Sky incident, Ensign-Bickford quit supplying munitions to ski areas. For those still involved, what matters is injury prevention—and keeping deadly weapons away from any nut-job who wants to make a statement. Sounds easy, until you consider a federally conducted audit, released in early '03, that revealed the U.S. Forest Service, which oversees ski-area avy control on public lands, didn't know where several of its 319 explosives bunkers were located. (The USFS responded by bolstering its bomb-tracking system.)<br /><br />To start tightening control, Congress passed a homeland security provision in 2003 that forbids nonresident aliens from handling explosives and requires stricter background checks. But the measure didn't stop a raid on the bomb cache at Winter Park Resort, Colorado, last March, where someone stole several hand charges (one charge is roughly equal to two sticks of dynamite). To experts, the incident proved that security will remain an issue. Says Ed Ryberg, USFS ski area program coordinator: "Anyone can find out where that stuff is.
</p><p>But don't go pawning your fat skis and resigning yourself to the groomers; avalanche control is unlikely to go away any time soon. "It's not like we have an ax over our heads, says Doug Abromeit, director of the forest service's National Avalanche Center. "But all this scrutiny is going to make everyone stay on his game even more. Nonetheless, Crested Butte's Sherwood, and avy experts across the U.S., are nervous. "It's a whole new world since 9/11, he says. "I don't know what the net result will be. But if we have another problem, we could be in trouble. </p>
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<a href="/skiing/grenoble-station/2004/09/skiing-into-terror">Skiing Into Terror</a> </div>
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<a href="/skiing/gear/skis/2004/09/win-the-avalanche-game">Win the Avalanche Game</a> </div>
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<a href="/skiing/avalanche-season/2004/02/can-you-trust-your-guide">Can You Trust Your Guide?</a> </div>
<div class="field-item even">
<a href="/skiing/2001/02/cliffhanger">Cliffhanger</a> </div>
</div>
</div>
articleMon, 13 Dec 2004 09:35:00 +0000SkiNet Editor12491 at http://www.skinet.com/skiingAspen's Flaming Arsehttp://www.skinet.com/skiing/resorts/rockies/colorado/2004/09/aspens-flaming-arse?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<p><b>Name:</b> Bert Petersen <br /><b>Age:</b> 54 <b>Location: </b>Aspen, Colorado
</p><p><b>Claim to Fame: </b>Every bartender has a signature beverage, but Petersen's concoction, lovingly known as the Flaming Asshole, takes sport-drinking to an embarrassing new low. Once a celebrity bartender of sorts at La Cocina (he got canned), where the drink became famous, Petersen now pours at the Steak Pit, a venerable—if relatively tame—eatery known for its top-notch…salad bar. Here, as at jobs past, he preys on the uninhibited and attention-starved—a birthday girl, say, or a patroller celebrating closing day. Once his victim is adequately alcohol-lubed, Petersen shouts: "Get on the bar and pull down your pants! The dupe usually obeys, at which point Petersen ignites a snifter of Sambuca, holds it aloft to a cheering crowd, and presses the glass firmly against the willing victim's butt-cheek. The flame extinguishes, and the flesh gets Hoovered deep into the glass, creating a giant hickey. Then the flaming a-hole drinks the potion.
</p><p><b>If You Must: </b><br />1) Pour a flammable cocktail (50 percent pure alcohol) into a snifter; apply match.
</p><p> 2) "Don't let the glass get too hot, he warns.
</p><p>3) Before contact, swab the skin with a wet cloth for a secure seal. "If it's some hairy ass, he says, "don't spend too much time with it.
</p><p><b>Quadruple The Excitement: </b>Petersen's most memorable Flaming A's? Twin sisters (at the same time, of course), and the daughter of an Aspen bank president who wanted shots applied to her breasts. "She was well endowed rasps Petersen. "She was trying to impress somebody, and it worked—she ended up leaving with him.
</p><p><b>PRINCE AMONG MEN: </b>Like everyone else in Aspen, Petersen passes the winter skiing powder and binge-drinking. The difference is that he does it all on the clock: By day he guides for the cat-skiing operation Aspen Powder Tours, tallying 15,000 vert per session. Later, at the Steak Pit, he slams five or six beers.
</p><p><b>ON AGING GRACEFULLY: </b>"It's alright, says Petersen with a grin. "You're only as old as the last girl you… (Yeah, yeah, Bert. We get it.)
</p><p>Sept. 2004</p>
<div class="field field-type-nodereference field-field-related-content">
<div class="field-items">
<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/generous-folks/2004/09/hot-list-the-official-beer-goggles">Hot List: The Official Beer Goggles</a> </div>
<div class="field-item even">
<a href="/skiing/resorts/rockies/colorado/2004/10/bumps-in-the-road">Bumps in the Road</a> </div>
<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/vertical-feet/2004/09/revivals">Revivals</a> </div>
<div class="field-item even">
<a href="/skiing/backcountry/destinations/2004/09/more-than-a-grand">More Than a Grand</a> </div>
</div>
</div>
http://www.skinet.com/skiing/resorts/rockies/colorado/2004/09/aspens-flaming-arse#commentsaspenpatrollerColorado Ski Resortsskiing12873http://www.skinet.com/skiing/files/skinetimages/skiing/content/images/2004/sept0904/misc/skg0904vibeat.jpg52414Vibe: Aspen's Flaming Arse
Credit: Tyler Stableford
http://www.skinet.com/skiing/Vibe<p><b>Name:</b> Bert Petersen <br /><b>Age:</b> 54 <b>Location: </b>Aspen, Colorado
</p><p><b>Claim to Fame: </b>Every bartender has a signature beverage, but Petersen's concoction, lovingly known as the Flaming Asshole, takes sport-drinking to an embarrassing new low. Once a celebrity bartender of sorts at La Cocina (he got canned), where the drink became famous, Petersen now pours at the Steak Pit, a venerable—if relatively tame—eatery known for its top-notch…salad bar. Here, as at jobs past, he preys on the uninhibited and attention-starved—a birthday girl, say, or a patroller celebrating closing day. Once his victim is adequately alcohol-lubed, Petersen shouts: "Get on the bar and pull down your pants! The dupe usually obeys, at which point Petersen ignites a snifter of Sambuca, holds it aloft to a cheering crowd, and presses the glass firmly against the willing victim's butt-cheek. The flame extinguishes, and the flesh gets Hoovered deep into the glass, creating a giant hickey. Then the flaming a-hole drinks the potion.
</p><p><b>If You Must: </b><br />1) Pour a flammable cocktail (50 percent pure alcohol) into a snifter; apply match.
</p><p> 2) "Don't let the glass get too hot, he warns.
</p><p>3) Before contact, swab the skin with a wet cloth for a secure seal. "If it's some hairy ass, he says, "don't spend too much time with it.
</p><p><b>Quadruple The Excitement: </b>Petersen's most memorable Flaming A's? Twin sisters (at the same time, of course), and the daughter of an Aspen bank president who wanted shots applied to her breasts. "She was well endowed rasps Petersen. "She was trying to impress somebody, and it worked—she ended up leaving with him.
</p><p><b>PRINCE AMONG MEN: </b>Like everyone else in Aspen, Petersen passes the winter skiing powder and binge-drinking. The difference is that he does it all on the clock: By day he guides for the cat-skiing operation Aspen Powder Tours, tallying 15,000 vert per session. Later, at the Steak Pit, he slams five or six beers.
</p><p><b>ON AGING GRACEFULLY: </b>"It's alright, says Petersen with a grin. "You're only as old as the last girl you… (Yeah, yeah, Bert. We get it.)
</p><p>Sept. 2004</p>
<div class="field field-type-nodereference field-field-related-content">
<div class="field-items">
<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/generous-folks/2004/09/hot-list-the-official-beer-goggles">Hot List: The Official Beer Goggles</a> </div>
<div class="field-item even">
<a href="/skiing/resorts/rockies/colorado/2004/10/bumps-in-the-road">Bumps in the Road</a> </div>
<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/vertical-feet/2004/09/revivals">Revivals</a> </div>
<div class="field-item even">
<a href="/skiing/backcountry/destinations/2004/09/more-than-a-grand">More Than a Grand</a> </div>
</div>
</div>
articleThu, 09 Sep 2004 09:25:00 +0000SkiNet Editor12873 at http://www.skinet.com/skiingHolding onto Historyhttp://www.skinet.com/skiing/gravy-boats/2004/03/holding-onto-history?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<p>When I was a kid, I loved to ride the chair with my dad and hear his stories of skiing in the old days. He'd tell of flailing down narrow trails on edgeless hickories, or of riding the ski train to Vermont, or of the time his friend Dick Best dried his leather ski boots on a wood stove and they warped into gravy boats. <br /><br />His stories make me regard Brian Lindner of Stowe, Vt., as one of skiing's unsung heroes. Like an alpine Freud, Lindner uncovers skiing's repressed past-then stores it in his garage. Lindner says his wife often meets him at the door with, "What did you bring home today?" The way Lindner sees it, "if nobody saved things, museums would be empty."<br /><br />People like Lindner understand that skiing has one of the most romantic histories in sports, from the early jumpers to the 10th Mountain Division in World War II. Football's pioneers didn't risk their necks flying off a jump in Soldier Field Stadium in 1939. No army of golfers beat back the Nazis on the cliffs of Italy. <br /><br />My dad started skiing when Stowe was truly the Ski Capital of the East because it had a chairlift. His stories made that past come alive. He'd tell me that he nearly missed the ski train because the conductor misunderstood his high school-French and said, "No, we don't stop at any place called 'Mon-Pell-Yay.'" (Montpelier, Vt., was another matter.) He told me how everyone wore their workaday overcoats on the lifts to stay warm, how Lowell Thomas delivered national radio broadcasts from the basement of the Green Mountain Inn, how only crazies dared to ski Nosedive. <br /><br />Lindner, a 51-year-old insurance executive and part-time patroller, can tell you that some of the world's greatest trail designers cut some of the first "down-mountain" trails at Stowe, and that it had one of the first chairlifts in the U.S., as well as the first ski dorm. Lindner can show you where the famous Nosedive used to be. (Now the reconfigured trail is a boulevard.) He can tell you that the towers that supported the single chair my dad rode were hot riveted in the same Brooklyn shipyard that built the Queen Elizabeth. The people who ski and work at Stowe also enjoy his stories. "When people know the history of their company, it helps build pride and morale," he says. He points to one of Stowe's first toboggans stashed in his garage: "Stowe has the oldest organized ski patrol in the U.S. This is our 70th year." That's history.<br /><br />Yet Lindner remains one of the few who care. One day 18 years ago, he discovered that Stowe management was hauling those lift towers to the scrap yard, and he asked for one. They wanted $500. None survived. When Stowe replaced its single chair with a quad in 1986, management tried to sell the old chairs for too much money, and ended up discarding most of them. Lindner until recently had one in his garage (he's since donated it to a ski museum), along with an original gondola, antique groomers and old wool poncho blankets. And the stone hut on top of Stowe? It's standing because years ago, while employed by Vermont's Youth Conservation Corps, he ignored orders to tear it down.
</p><p>Meanwhile, the ski industry moans that numbers remain flat. That's partly because too many resorts have become as faceless as Wal-Marts. History sells: We pay more to stay at a historic inn than a Motel 6. At places like the Balsams Wilderness in New Hampshire, its hotel hallways lined with photos and letters from famous guests, the past creates atmosphere. It's exciting to know that you're sharing space with the ghosts of Teddy Roosevelt and Babe Ruth. That's why smart resort developers build ersatz history-picture those pseudo-Old World villages at Tremblant or Vail. And nearly every ski bar in the world has vintage skis and snowshoes screwed to the walls.
</p><p>More people would ski if more lodges looked like the 1960s beauty at the Balsams, with its smell of an actual wood fire in an actual stone fireplace. And every resort would be improved by saving a few narrow, natural-snow trails, where you feel like you're on a mountain, not an inclined white carpet. People may like megaresorts, but they love places with hot-riveted towers, like Mad River Glen and Alta.
</p><p>Of course the fault lies not just with management, but with us. Skiing is constantly evolving, and we all want the next big thing. I wish I still had the red-white-and-blue Rossi ST-650s I worshiped in high school but later tossed aside for something newer. Resorts have become bland partly because management thinks that's what we want.
</p><p>But managers ought to have vision. Too many know nothing of the skiers and events that preceded them. That's why they can't see that turning a Charlie Lord-designed trail into a golf course with lifts is as vile as paving over a Frederick Law Olmsted garden. When we destroy skiing's past, we plasticize the sport. That doesn't mean we need to turn every lodge into a museum, but it does mean that resorts need to find their own Brian Lindners-and listen to them. Then they'll know what lift towers to save, what bygone skiers to brag about and what photos to hang near the cafeteria line.
</p><p>Our past teaches us where we come from and who we are. It connects the generations and shows us that though the sport has changed, the reason people wake up early on a cold winter morning to head up a mountain has not.
</p><p>I'd like to take my own sons down Stowe's Nosedive as it was in my dad's day. I'd like to tell them stories of my own on the chairlift. I want them to love skiing as much as I do. Don't my kids-and their kids-deserve that, too?</p>
<div class="field field-type-nodereference field-field-related-content">
<div class="field-items">
<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/instant-gratification/2004/03/1965">1965</a> </div>
</div>
</div>
http://www.skinet.com/skiing/gravy-boats/2004/03/holding-onto-history#commentschair liftshickoriespatrollerski trainstoweskiing8586http://www.skinet.com/skiing/files/skinetimages/skimag/content/images/Mar_Apr04/fallline0304/SKI0304flft.jpg42450Fall Linehttp://www.skinet.com/skiing/Fall Line<p>When I was a kid, I loved to ride the chair with my dad and hear his stories of skiing in the old days. He'd tell of flailing down narrow trails on edgeless hickories, or of riding the ski train to Vermont, or of the time his friend Dick Best dried his leather ski boots on a wood stove and they warped into gravy boats. <br /><br />His stories make me regard Brian Lindner of Stowe, Vt., as one of skiing's unsung heroes. Like an alpine Freud, Lindner uncovers skiing's repressed past-then stores it in his garage. Lindner says his wife often meets him at the door with, "What did you bring home today?" The way Lindner sees it, "if nobody saved things, museums would be empty."<br /><br />People like Lindner understand that skiing has one of the most romantic histories in sports, from the early jumpers to the 10th Mountain Division in World War II. Football's pioneers didn't risk their necks flying off a jump in Soldier Field Stadium in 1939. No army of golfers beat back the Nazis on the cliffs of Italy. <br /><br />My dad started skiing when Stowe was truly the Ski Capital of the East because it had a chairlift. His stories made that past come alive. He'd tell me that he nearly missed the ski train because the conductor misunderstood his high school-French and said, "No, we don't stop at any place called 'Mon-Pell-Yay.'" (Montpelier, Vt., was another matter.) He told me how everyone wore their workaday overcoats on the lifts to stay warm, how Lowell Thomas delivered national radio broadcasts from the basement of the Green Mountain Inn, how only crazies dared to ski Nosedive. <br /><br />Lindner, a 51-year-old insurance executive and part-time patroller, can tell you that some of the world's greatest trail designers cut some of the first "down-mountain" trails at Stowe, and that it had one of the first chairlifts in the U.S., as well as the first ski dorm. Lindner can show you where the famous Nosedive used to be. (Now the reconfigured trail is a boulevard.) He can tell you that the towers that supported the single chair my dad rode were hot riveted in the same Brooklyn shipyard that built the Queen Elizabeth. The people who ski and work at Stowe also enjoy his stories. "When people know the history of their company, it helps build pride and morale," he says. He points to one of Stowe's first toboggans stashed in his garage: "Stowe has the oldest organized ski patrol in the U.S. This is our 70th year." That's history.<br /><br />Yet Lindner remains one of the few who care. One day 18 years ago, he discovered that Stowe management was hauling those lift towers to the scrap yard, and he asked for one. They wanted $500. None survived. When Stowe replaced its single chair with a quad in 1986, management tried to sell the old chairs for too much money, and ended up discarding most of them. Lindner until recently had one in his garage (he's since donated it to a ski museum), along with an original gondola, antique groomers and old wool poncho blankets. And the stone hut on top of Stowe? It's standing because years ago, while employed by Vermont's Youth Conservation Corps, he ignored orders to tear it down.
</p><p>Meanwhile, the ski industry moans that numbers remain flat. That's partly because too many resorts have become as faceless as Wal-Marts. History sells: We pay more to stay at a historic inn than a Motel 6. At places like the Balsams Wilderness in New Hampshire, its hotel hallways lined with photos and letters from famous guests, the past creates atmosphere. It's exciting to know that you're sharing space with the ghosts of Teddy Roosevelt and Babe Ruth. That's why smart resort developers build ersatz history-picture those pseudo-Old World villages at Tremblant or Vail. And nearly every ski bar in the world has vintage skis and snowshoes screwed to the walls.
</p><p>More people would ski if more lodges looked like the 1960s beauty at the Balsams, with its smell of an actual wood fire in an actual stone fireplace. And every resort would be improved by saving a few narrow, natural-snow trails, where you feel like you're on a mountain, not an inclined white carpet. People may like megaresorts, but they love places with hot-riveted towers, like Mad River Glen and Alta.
</p><p>Of course the fault lies not just with management, but with us. Skiing is constantly evolving, and we all want the next big thing. I wish I still had the red-white-and-blue Rossi ST-650s I worshiped in high school but later tossed aside for something newer. Resorts have become bland partly because management thinks that's what we want.
</p><p>But managers ought to have vision. Too many know nothing of the skiers and events that preceded them. That's why they can't see that turning a Charlie Lord-designed trail into a golf course with lifts is as vile as paving over a Frederick Law Olmsted garden. When we destroy skiing's past, we plasticize the sport. That doesn't mean we need to turn every lodge into a museum, but it does mean that resorts need to find their own Brian Lindners-and listen to them. Then they'll know what lift towers to save, what bygone skiers to brag about and what photos to hang near the cafeteria line.
</p><p>Our past teaches us where we come from and who we are. It connects the generations and shows us that though the sport has changed, the reason people wake up early on a cold winter morning to head up a mountain has not.
</p><p>I'd like to take my own sons down Stowe's Nosedive as it was in my dad's day. I'd like to tell them stories of my own on the chairlift. I want them to love skiing as much as I do. Don't my kids-and their kids-deserve that, too?</p>
<div class="field field-type-nodereference field-field-related-content">
<div class="field-items">
<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/instant-gratification/2004/03/1965">1965</a> </div>
</div>
</div>
articleThu, 04 Mar 2004 09:10:00 +0000SkiNet Editor8586 at http://www.skinet.com/skiingDesperately Seeking Fidohttp://www.skinet.com/skiing/snow-pit/2004/02/desperately-seeking-fido?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<p>To the chagrin of cats everywhere, Ortovox's D1 Doggy Xmitter now allows true powder-hounds to survive slides. A canine avalanche transceiver, the D1 slides onto a dog's collar and transmits a locator beacon up to 90 feet. Role-reversal on the standard avvy dog training scenario, in which a human is buried in a snow pit for the dog to sniff out, is unlikely. "It's practically impossible, says Crested Butte, Colo., patroller Eric Baumm, "to get a dog to stay in a snow pit while you're filling it in. </p>
http://www.skinet.com/skiing/snow-pit/2004/02/desperately-seeking-fido#commentsavalancheColoradocrested buttepatrollerskiing8605http://www.skinet.com/skiing/http://www.skinet.com/skiing/Fall Line<p>To the chagrin of cats everywhere, Ortovox's D1 Doggy Xmitter now allows true powder-hounds to survive slides. A canine avalanche transceiver, the D1 slides onto a dog's collar and transmits a locator beacon up to 90 feet. Role-reversal on the standard avvy dog training scenario, in which a human is buried in a snow pit for the dog to sniff out, is unlikely. "It's practically impossible, says Crested Butte, Colo., patroller Eric Baumm, "to get a dog to stay in a snow pit while you're filling it in. </p>
articleFri, 13 Feb 2004 09:05:00 +0000SkiNet Editor8605 at http://www.skinet.com/skiingCan You Dig It?http://www.skinet.com/skiing/backcountry/destinations/2004/02/can-you-dig-it?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<p>It is late fall in park city, Utah, and Ivory is pacing. Today, as part of her early-season dryland drills, she might participate in anything from a mock wilderness search to a river rescue to a joint training exercise with police dogs hunting for a cadaver in a collapsed building. Whatever Ivory is asked to do, shell do it quickly. </p><P>The eight-year-old, 65-pound golden retriever is the most highly trained canine at Park City Mountain Resort and a member of Wasatch Backcountry Rescue, which is one of some 1,200 certified teams worldwide. Shes the recent winner of the prestigious Purina Dog Challenge, in which dogs face off two at a time to locate and dig out victims buried 20 yards away under six feet of snow. She found her guy in less than 90 seconds, says Marjorie Jaques, a Park City patroller and Ivorys handler. It can sometimes take up to five minutes. </p><P>As the Wasatchs elder statesdog, Ivory is in high demand: When shes not training, shes on call six days a week, sometimes working avalanche duty for 12 hours a day. As a blond, she needs to wear a blinking collar to stay visible in the snowand cowbells when shes actually searching.
</p><p>Her reward for all her lifesaving efforts? Nothing more than playing with a blue-and-white squeaky tug toy. Maybe you should hang one off your pack when you head OB.<br />
</p><div class="field field-type-nodereference field-field-related-content">
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<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/2003/01/dogging-it">Dogging It</a> </div>
<div class="field-item even">
<a href="/skiing/backcountry-skier/2000/12/information-avalanche">Information Avalanche</a> </div>
<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/backcountry/destinations/2000/11/avalanche-hysteria">Avalanche Hysteria</a> </div>
</div>
</div>
http://www.skinet.com/skiing/backcountry/destinations/2004/02/can-you-dig-it#commentsDestinationsavalanchefive minutesPark Citypatrollersix dayssix feetwasatch backcountryskiing11442http://www.skinet.com/skiing/files/skinetimages/skiing/content/images/DEC03/Coldfront1203/SKG1203cfht.jpg52116Can You Dig It? 1203
Digging it. Photo Al Hartmann
http://www.skinet.com/skiing/Face Shots<p>It is late fall in park city, Utah, and Ivory is pacing. Today, as part of her early-season dryland drills, she might participate in anything from a mock wilderness search to a river rescue to a joint training exercise with police dogs hunting for a cadaver in a collapsed building. Whatever Ivory is asked to do, shell do it quickly. </p><P>The eight-year-old, 65-pound golden retriever is the most highly trained canine at Park City Mountain Resort and a member of Wasatch Backcountry Rescue, which is one of some 1,200 certified teams worldwide. Shes the recent winner of the prestigious Purina Dog Challenge, in which dogs face off two at a time to locate and dig out victims buried 20 yards away under six feet of snow. She found her guy in less than 90 seconds, says Marjorie Jaques, a Park City patroller and Ivorys handler. It can sometimes take up to five minutes. </p><P>As the Wasatchs elder statesdog, Ivory is in high demand: When shes not training, shes on call six days a week, sometimes working avalanche duty for 12 hours a day. As a blond, she needs to wear a blinking collar to stay visible in the snowand cowbells when shes actually searching.
</p><p>Her reward for all her lifesaving efforts? Nothing more than playing with a blue-and-white squeaky tug toy. Maybe you should hang one off your pack when you head OB.<br />
</p><div class="field field-type-nodereference field-field-related-content">
<div class="field-items">
<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/2003/01/dogging-it">Dogging It</a> </div>
<div class="field-item even">
<a href="/skiing/backcountry-skier/2000/12/information-avalanche">Information Avalanche</a> </div>
<div class="field-item odd">
<a href="/skiing/backcountry/destinations/2000/11/avalanche-hysteria">Avalanche Hysteria</a> </div>
</div>
</div>
articleWed, 11 Feb 2004 09:40:00 +0000SkiNet Editor11442 at http://www.skinet.com/skiingTrambitioushttp://www.skinet.com/skiing/resorts/rockies/wyoming/2002/09/trambitious?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<p>Last march, while many of us were still finishing our short stacks and nursing our hangovers, two ski instructors and a patroller at Jackson Hole were busy making their first of 26 laps on the resort's famed aerial tram. Racking up 107,614 vertical feet of skiing between 7 a.m. and 4 p.m. (and raising more than $3,000 for Teton County Search and Rescue), the team of Doug Pierini, Mike Janssen, and Kirk "Sparky" Spreckhals narrowly beat the previous record of 25 trams, which had stood since 1969.</p>
<p>Their route remained the same throughout the day: East Ridge Traverse into Tensleep Bowl; Tensleep to Downhill Chute to Amphitheater; Amphitheater to Gros Ventre to the bottom.</p>
<p>"We never got an exact time, but it probably took us three and a half minutes for each run," says Pierini of their top-to-bottom, no-turn screamers logged before the mountain opened to the public. "During the day, we backed off a little bit, to about four and a half minutes (per run)."</p>
<p>Not bad, considering Jackson Hole's thigh-searing, 4,139-foot vertical drop and the whiteout conditions that day, which Pierini described as "horrific."</p>
<p>"It just got windier and windier, and it was snowing all day," he says. "The only thing that saved us is that we got a couple runs in early, so we were comfortable with where we were going-even if we couldn't see it."</p>
<p>A point that sparked debate about the validity of the new record: The previous record-holders took no such early runs. "The whole idea was to do it in the publicized hours of ski operation," recalls former Jacksonite Dean Anderson, now president of Poma of America and one of the five skiers who set the original record. But the 1969 team had a crutch of its own: The group, led by former German national downhill champ Ferdl Fettig, also included Jackson Hole's mountain manager, who ensured that the tram was held and waiting for them at the end of each run.</p>
<div class="field field-type-nodereference field-field-related-content">
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<a href="/skiing/2001/03/cold-front-collection">Cold Front Collection</a> </div>
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http://www.skinet.com/skiing/resorts/rockies/wyoming/2002/09/trambitious#commentscrutchhangoversjackson holepatrollerpomas mountainski instructorskierstramsWyomingskiing12762http://www.skinet.com/skiing/files/skinetimages/skiing/content/images/skg0902_trambitiousa_s.jpg51273Trambitioushttp://www.skinet.com/skiing/Vibe<p>Last march, while many of us were still finishing our short stacks and nursing our hangovers, two ski instructors and a patroller at Jackson Hole were busy making their first of 26 laps on the resort's famed aerial tram. Racking up 107,614 vertical feet of skiing between 7 a.m. and 4 p.m. (and raising more than $3,000 for Teton County Search and Rescue), the team of Doug Pierini, Mike Janssen, and Kirk "Sparky" Spreckhals narrowly beat the previous record of 25 trams, which had stood since 1969.</p>
<p>Their route remained the same throughout the day: East Ridge Traverse into Tensleep Bowl; Tensleep to Downhill Chute to Amphitheater; Amphitheater to Gros Ventre to the bottom.</p>
<p>"We never got an exact time, but it probably took us three and a half minutes for each run," says Pierini of their top-to-bottom, no-turn screamers logged before the mountain opened to the public. "During the day, we backed off a little bit, to about four and a half minutes (per run)."</p>
<p>Not bad, considering Jackson Hole's thigh-searing, 4,139-foot vertical drop and the whiteout conditions that day, which Pierini described as "horrific."</p>
<p>"It just got windier and windier, and it was snowing all day," he says. "The only thing that saved us is that we got a couple runs in early, so we were comfortable with where we were going-even if we couldn't see it."</p>
<p>A point that sparked debate about the validity of the new record: The previous record-holders took no such early runs. "The whole idea was to do it in the publicized hours of ski operation," recalls former Jacksonite Dean Anderson, now president of Poma of America and one of the five skiers who set the original record. But the 1969 team had a crutch of its own: The group, led by former German national downhill champ Ferdl Fettig, also included Jackson Hole's mountain manager, who ensured that the tram was held and waiting for them at the end of each run.</p>
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<a href="/skiing/2001/03/cold-front-collection">Cold Front Collection</a> </div>
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articleFri, 27 Sep 2002 09:05:00 +0000SkiNet Editor12762 at http://www.skinet.com/skiingThe Frabert Awardhttp://www.skinet.com/skiing/bier-stube/2002/08/the-frabert-award?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<p>Next time you visit Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana, you might want to schedule a Wednesday night visit to the rowdy Bier Stube bar-and be on the lookout for a short, hairy guy named Frabert."Frabert" is actually a stuffed monkey with a cast on one leg (courtesy of a local MD), meant to reflect his cloddish disposition. In a tradition dating back to the Hellroaring Ski Club days of 1960, Big Mountain ski patrollers dish out a weekly Frabert award to the reigning "Clod of the Day."
</p><p>Last March, local cook Robert Bishop put himself in Frabert contention by snaking his way to the front of the Glacier Chaser quad lift line on the biggest powder day of the year. A skier Bishop was sharing the chair with started in on him for cutting line. The cook explained that he would only get one run since he had to work all day up at the Summit House. When the guy continued chiding, pointing out that flipping burgers didn't warrant such perks, Bishop turned to his harasser and said, "You know, you?re kind of a f-ing dick."
</p><p>Turns out, said dick was Mike Collins, CEO of the resort.
</p><p>A patroller who was also on the chair saw to it that Bishop fulfilled his cloddish obligation later that night by chugging a schooner of beer at the Bier Stube while holding the lovable Frabert. No word on whether burger boy will be back at his post this season. <i>-Scott Willoughby</i>
</p><p><b>Slope Rage</b>It had started as just another February powder day for Vail local Skip Moss. After a morning in the back bowls, Moss was heading out-of-bounds to ski the East Vail Chutes when he ran into a group of snowboarders. He suggested to them that they might not have adequate gear for the backcountry.
</p><p>An argument erupted, and the snowboarders began pummeling the skier. One of them even took Moss's own pole and used it against him. "I couldn't believe it," said Moss. "I had five guys on me, kicking me in the head."
</p><p>The incident caught the attention of the mainstream media, including The New York Times, and served as a reminder of an earlier era-when clashes between skiers and snowboarders were commonplace. "It really disturbs me," said Vail local and professional snowboarder Chris Albers, upon hearing of the assault. "I thought we were over this type of stuff. Punks like that perpetuate the idea that everyone who rides a snowboard is an asshole." However, others familiar with Moss say the incident may have had less to do with bad blood between skiers and snowboarders than with the victim's temper. "He can get wound up pretty easily," said a local who has had barroom confrontations with Moss. "The snowboarders definitely went too far, but I'll bet Moss helped bring it on."<i>-Tom Winter</i></p>
<div class="field field-type-nodereference field-field-related-content">
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<a href="/skiing/2001/03/cold-front-collection">Cold Front Collection</a> </div>
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http://www.skinet.com/skiing/bier-stube/2002/08/the-frabert-award#commentsback bowlsmountain skinew york timespatrollerski clubski patrollersskiersnowboardingskiing12474http://www.skinet.com/skiing/http://www.skinet.com/skiing/Cold Front<p>Next time you visit Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana, you might want to schedule a Wednesday night visit to the rowdy Bier Stube bar-and be on the lookout for a short, hairy guy named Frabert."Frabert" is actually a stuffed monkey with a cast on one leg (courtesy of a local MD), meant to reflect his cloddish disposition. In a tradition dating back to the Hellroaring Ski Club days of 1960, Big Mountain ski patrollers dish out a weekly Frabert award to the reigning "Clod of the Day."
</p><p>Last March, local cook Robert Bishop put himself in Frabert contention by snaking his way to the front of the Glacier Chaser quad lift line on the biggest powder day of the year. A skier Bishop was sharing the chair with started in on him for cutting line. The cook explained that he would only get one run since he had to work all day up at the Summit House. When the guy continued chiding, pointing out that flipping burgers didn't warrant such perks, Bishop turned to his harasser and said, "You know, you?re kind of a f-ing dick."
</p><p>Turns out, said dick was Mike Collins, CEO of the resort.
</p><p>A patroller who was also on the chair saw to it that Bishop fulfilled his cloddish obligation later that night by chugging a schooner of beer at the Bier Stube while holding the lovable Frabert. No word on whether burger boy will be back at his post this season. <i>-Scott Willoughby</i>
</p><p><b>Slope Rage</b>It had started as just another February powder day for Vail local Skip Moss. After a morning in the back bowls, Moss was heading out-of-bounds to ski the East Vail Chutes when he ran into a group of snowboarders. He suggested to them that they might not have adequate gear for the backcountry.
</p><p>An argument erupted, and the snowboarders began pummeling the skier. One of them even took Moss's own pole and used it against him. "I couldn't believe it," said Moss. "I had five guys on me, kicking me in the head."
</p><p>The incident caught the attention of the mainstream media, including The New York Times, and served as a reminder of an earlier era-when clashes between skiers and snowboarders were commonplace. "It really disturbs me," said Vail local and professional snowboarder Chris Albers, upon hearing of the assault. "I thought we were over this type of stuff. Punks like that perpetuate the idea that everyone who rides a snowboard is an asshole." However, others familiar with Moss say the incident may have had less to do with bad blood between skiers and snowboarders than with the victim's temper. "He can get wound up pretty easily," said a local who has had barroom confrontations with Moss. "The snowboarders definitely went too far, but I'll bet Moss helped bring it on."<i>-Tom Winter</i></p>
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<a href="/skiing/2001/03/cold-front-collection">Cold Front Collection</a> </div>
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articleFri, 16 Aug 2002 09:25:00 +0000SkiNet Editor12474 at http://www.skinet.com/skiingAsk Josh - November 2001http://www.skinet.com/skiing/montreal-quebec/2002/01/ask-josh-november-2001?lnk=rss&loc=patroller
<p><b><font color=blue>Dear Josh,</font><br />On a ski trip last year, my buddy broke his foot. He ended up on crutches and narcotics, so we dragged him from bar to bar in an effort to find him some female compassion. But we were unsuccessful. In fact, he was shunned. How could he have salvaged some fun?</b><br /><i>Michael Purvis <br />Philadelphia, Pennsylvania</i></p><P>How odd that you guys were shunned. Usually women find a group of intoxicated men -- one of them crippled and sedated -- so attractive. Anyway, are you looking for insights into why the ol' crutch and fracture gambit didn't work, or for suggestions on what you should have done for fun instead? If it's the latter, I'd suggest Scrabble, backgammon, or whist. If it's the former, you're asking the wrong <i>hombrito.</i> I'm no more qualified to give hints about attracting women than a moth is about coaxing a 200-watt bulb out into the night. But I do know this: The notion that women will come flocking to a big, strong, brave, injured skier-man is absurd. Years ago, when it was less common for women to ski, an air of mystery and excitement might have enveloped a gentleman who looked like, say, Cary Grant, as he sat on his barstool, the cast on his ankle barely wrinkling the cuff of his bespoke lounging trousers. But nowadays, women ski. And if they see you hopping around trying to balance your crutches and your beaker of Jägermeister, they'll probably figure that you fell on your blue-square butt while trying to ski a black diamond. And perchance they remember hearing you whimper and mewl as you were loaded onto the patroller's toboggan while they wedeled past.</p><P><b>I watched a downhill competition where a racer's helmet caught on fire, apparently because of the air friction and the recent paint job on the helmet. Can this really happen?</b><br /><i>Martin Boisselle <br />Montreal, Quebec</i></p><P>Can I just say one thing here? I'm perfectly willing to answer any and all questions that come my way, but could you all just pause for maybe 10 seconds to think them through before sending them? Sheesh. Now, most of us are aware that the friction created when air passes over a surface at high speed can heat up the surface in question. But racers go, what, maybe 80 miles an hour, tops? Have you ever stuck your hand out the window of a speeding car in the winter? Did you ever have to pull it in -- Ouch! -- because it got too hot? Did you ever have to carefully wipe the drops of gasoline from around your gas tank so they wouldn't combust when you hit 60? Have I made my point? You would need sustained speeds in the ballpark of Mach 2 (1,400 miles per hour) to get that hot. Emily Brydon of the Canadian Ski Team <i>did</i> practically melt a hole in her helmet at last winter's Worlds in St. Anton when she fell and her helmet skidded up against the emergency netting, but no skier's helmet has ever caught fire from air friction. In fact, very few skiers even have flames <i>painted</i> on their helmets. </p><P><b>How does one determine "boot volume"? My wife's a 7 1/2 wide. So, is her boot volume above average? </b><br /><i>J. Christopher Clifford<br />Fort Myers, Florida</i></p><P>First, a quick review of what foot measurements really mean. Trace your foot on a piece of paper. The flat shape you end up with is the only thing that's captured by traditional size and width. Now look at your foot. Is it flat? No, it's a big, smelly, complicated three-dimensional shape. With little pieces of lint stuck to it. A boot's volume, therefore, is a way of describing this three-dimensional aspect or, in other words, how much pudding a boot can hold. And you'll find that a Lange and a Salomon, for instance, of the same size hold different quantities of pudding. But knowing how much your boot holds can only get you so far, because you don't know whether all that pudding is crammed up in the toe area, back in the heel, or wadded up right in the middle. Does your wife have a big basin-o'-pudding instep and a wide sea-oo'-tapioca forefoot? To answer this, you really need to go to a good shop with knowledgeable bootfitters who can look at the shape of your wife's foot and point her toward some likely candidates. That's a starting point, but the old gal still needs to roll up her pant legs and try on a bunch of boots. And don't let her decide whether or not they fit until they've been on her foot for at least 10 minutes. It takes at least that long for the pudding to settle.</p><P><br />
<hr width=99% /></p><P>Do you have a question for know-it-all Josh Lerman? Send it to Ask Josh, SKIING Magazine, 929 Pearl St., Ste. 200, Boulder, CO 80302 or <a href=mailto:askjosh@skiingmag.com>askjosh@skiingmag.com</a>.We won't be able to answer all questions. </p><P>Former SKIING executive editor Josh Lerman is now senior editor at <i>Parenting.</i></p>
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<a href="/skiing/rush-to-judgment/2002/01/ask-josh-december-2001">Ask Josh - December 2001</a> </div>
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http://www.skinet.com/skiing/montreal-quebec/2002/01/ask-josh-november-2001#commentsblack diamondcrutchpatrollerski tripskierBlack Diamondskiing10464http://www.skinet.com/skiing/files/skinetimages/mtnpub/content/images/old/standard/02/01/skg1101AJm.jpg46282ask josh.nov01http://www.skinet.com/skiing/Ask Dr. Flake<p><b><font color=blue>Dear Josh,</font><br />On a ski trip last year, my buddy broke his foot. He ended up on crutches and narcotics, so we dragged him from bar to bar in an effort to find him some female compassion. But we were unsuccessful. In fact, he was shunned. How could he have salvaged some fun?</b><br /><i>Michael Purvis <br />Philadelphia, Pennsylvania</i></p><P>How odd that you guys were shunned. Usually women find a group of intoxicated men -- one of them crippled and sedated -- so attractive. Anyway, are you looking for insights into why the ol' crutch and fracture gambit didn't work, or for suggestions on what you should have done for fun instead? If it's the latter, I'd suggest Scrabble, backgammon, or whist. If it's the former, you're asking the wrong <i>hombrito.</i> I'm no more qualified to give hints about attracting women than a moth is about coaxing a 200-watt bulb out into the night. But I do know this: The notion that women will come flocking to a big, strong, brave, injured skier-man is absurd. Years ago, when it was less common for women to ski, an air of mystery and excitement might have enveloped a gentleman who looked like, say, Cary Grant, as he sat on his barstool, the cast on his ankle barely wrinkling the cuff of his bespoke lounging trousers. But nowadays, women ski. And if they see you hopping around trying to balance your crutches and your beaker of Jägermeister, they'll probably figure that you fell on your blue-square butt while trying to ski a black diamond. And perchance they remember hearing you whimper and mewl as you were loaded onto the patroller's toboggan while they wedeled past.</p><P><b>I watched a downhill competition where a racer's helmet caught on fire, apparently because of the air friction and the recent paint job on the helmet. Can this really happen?</b><br /><i>Martin Boisselle <br />Montreal, Quebec</i></p><P>Can I just say one thing here? I'm perfectly willing to answer any and all questions that come my way, but could you all just pause for maybe 10 seconds to think them through before sending them? Sheesh. Now, most of us are aware that the friction created when air passes over a surface at high speed can heat up the surface in question. But racers go, what, maybe 80 miles an hour, tops? Have you ever stuck your hand out the window of a speeding car in the winter? Did you ever have to pull it in -- Ouch! -- because it got too hot? Did you ever have to carefully wipe the drops of gasoline from around your gas tank so they wouldn't combust when you hit 60? Have I made my point? You would need sustained speeds in the ballpark of Mach 2 (1,400 miles per hour) to get that hot. Emily Brydon of the Canadian Ski Team <i>did</i> practically melt a hole in her helmet at last winter's Worlds in St. Anton when she fell and her helmet skidded up against the emergency netting, but no skier's helmet has ever caught fire from air friction. In fact, very few skiers even have flames <i>painted</i> on their helmets. </p><P><b>How does one determine "boot volume"? My wife's a 7 1/2 wide. So, is her boot volume above average? </b><br /><i>J. Christopher Clifford<br />Fort Myers, Florida</i></p><P>First, a quick review of what foot measurements really mean. Trace your foot on a piece of paper. The flat shape you end up with is the only thing that's captured by traditional size and width. Now look at your foot. Is it flat? No, it's a big, smelly, complicated three-dimensional shape. With little pieces of lint stuck to it. A boot's volume, therefore, is a way of describing this three-dimensional aspect or, in other words, how much pudding a boot can hold. And you'll find that a Lange and a Salomon, for instance, of the same size hold different quantities of pudding. But knowing how much your boot holds can only get you so far, because you don't know whether all that pudding is crammed up in the toe area, back in the heel, or wadded up right in the middle. Does your wife have a big basin-o'-pudding instep and a wide sea-oo'-tapioca forefoot? To answer this, you really need to go to a good shop with knowledgeable bootfitters who can look at the shape of your wife's foot and point her toward some likely candidates. That's a starting point, but the old gal still needs to roll up her pant legs and try on a bunch of boots. And don't let her decide whether or not they fit until they've been on her foot for at least 10 minutes. It takes at least that long for the pudding to settle.</p><P><br />
<hr width=99% /></p><P>Do you have a question for know-it-all Josh Lerman? Send it to Ask Josh, SKIING Magazine, 929 Pearl St., Ste. 200, Boulder, CO 80302 or <a href=mailto:askjosh@skiingmag.com>askjosh@skiingmag.com</a>.We won't be able to answer all questions. </p><P>Former SKIING executive editor Josh Lerman is now senior editor at <i>Parenting.</i></p>
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<a href="/skiing/rush-to-judgment/2002/01/ask-josh-december-2001">Ask Josh - December 2001</a> </div>
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articleFri, 04 Jan 2002 18:24:00 +0000SkiNet Editor10464 at http://www.skinet.com/skiing